Scrawl Calibur Drabbles
by emo-geek-87
Summary: Seven Daily Drabbles- Puck/Kurt


I-Faint

_Waiting For_

The warm sun warps the air around him. The air prickles his skin in a way that makes him wish he could take it off. He can feel the little ants crawling up his pant leg. It's been two and a half days since he'd plopped himself down on the small patch of grass. Staging an impromptu hunger strike was not his most inspired idea but it was the only thing he could think of.

His stomach had long since past the gnawing pain and settled into a quiet throbbing that would make him cry if it weren't for the crowd that had gathered. He thinks he hears the quiet murmur of Mercedes and the gruff reasoned tones of his father. Only one person really knows why he's decided to pull this stunt but even in his fevered state he can tell that Puck isn't among the spectators.

He stays in his spot for two more days. He's humming under his breath as he fights to stay upright. He's given up on holding back his tears. Around the last half of the third day that he'd begun to give up hope. He'd spent the rest of the time quietly mourning the loss of something that wasn't his in the first place.

The crowd is gone and the sun is setting far behind him. A large warm hand rests on his fevered cheek and warm brown eyes meet his for the first time since all this happened. He waits until he's cradled in Noah's arms before he gives into the faint pull of sleep. He knows he needs sleep, a bath and twice his weight in food. But right now he's content where he is. Warm in Noah's arms. Because really that's what this whole thing was about in the first place.

II-Bitter

_Lemonade_

Bitter. Of all the words that could describe their beginnings, it's bitter.

From the acidic, hateful words that would fall out of their mouths effortlessly. To the salty taste of Puck rolling on his tongue. From the sharp shoulders that sent him flying into the hard metal lockers. To the press of those same shoulders that would hold him in place as Puck would pound against him. From the cold, harsh slap of grape slushie. To the warm ropes of cum that would paint his face.

Everything about them was laced with a kind of sour taste. The kind that made you scrunch your face up, like you were sucking on bitter candy. But there was sugar underneath. In the way Puck would let him leave marks on his skin. In the way that Puck would call him _Kurt_ in whispered tones, hiding in the darkness. In the way that Puck would curl into Kurt's side and beg forgiveness for every biting word. In the way Kurt would always forgive him.

The day that Puck first kissed him, hiding in the dark corner of the auditorium, Kurt could taste the lemonade on Puck's lips. The day Puck kisses Kurt in public, he tastes like watermelon and second chances.

III- Crush

_Seasons_

His summers were Orange Crush and Captain Crunch. His winters were snowmen and shortbread cookies. His falls were raking leaves and second-hand back to school clothes. His springs were sister-made dandelion necklaces and soil-stained fingers. He wanted to share all that with Kurt.

His summers were stiff-backed chairs and quiet waiting rooms. His winters were drinking hot chocolate alone and eggnog going bad in the fridge. His falls were the death march back to the place that meant torture and a spike in dry-cleaning bills. His springs were cleaning the rain gutters and no one remembering his birthday. But that was before Noah.

Their summers are Orange Crush flavored kisses and Captain Crunch for dinner. Their winters are gingerbread men and spiked eggnog. Their falls are first days of school and watching their daughter wave goodbye with her princess lunch kit. Their springs are wild flower tiaras and homemade birthday cards.

They could measure their love like the seasons and they could taste it just as strongly as they could taste the Orange Crush that always clung to Kurt's top lip.

IV-Stifle

_Hands and Lips_

The hand that clamps over his mouth forces a startled squeak from his lips. The hand tightens when he finds that Kurt is already hard. Almost like he was waiting. He spend a few brief moments relishing in the way Kurt's gasps tickle his palm and the thick heady smell of lust that paints the curve of Kurt's neck. Kurt is hard and heavy in his hand and Puck can feel his thick moans through his back. He presses Kurt further into the wall and feels the cool plaster dust against the knuckles of the hand that has been stifling any noise.

He knows that they don't have much time but that doesn't speed the leisurely pace he sets. Soon he can feel Kurt's hips snap forward before he sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of Puck's palm. Kurt comes in a strangled gasp and his lips fall open enough to peek out from under Puck's hand. He pulls soft skin into his mouth and sucks hard.

The hand falls away except for the stray thumb that stays tucked against his bottom lip. It isn't until Puck pulls back a bit that he catches a glance of them in the mirror. Puck's eyes are black with unfulfilled lust and Kurt's are blown with sated pleasure. He forces himself back hard into Puck's crotch once before floating out of the bathroom door. Leaving him hard and frowning.

That's what he gets for thinking the washroom at _Denny's_ was an appropriate place for that kind of thing.

V- Bold

_Who are you?_

Kurt has always lived his life boldly. He's draped himself in loudly bright clothing by extravagantly expensive designers. He asked his flannel-wearing father for sensible heels and tap shoes and a Maria bonnet. He worn ten inch heels through the narrow hallways of William McKinley. He sang with his true voice even though he knew he could fake lower if he needed to. He wore the mask that saved his life. Kurt Hummel was the boy that was too loud for his own good.

Puck always lived his life like that day was going to be his last. He lived in the hand-me-down flannel shirts that his father left behind because that's all they could afford. He asked his flannel-wearing father for voice lessons and dance classes and tap shoes. He hides his scars under the flannel his father left him. He hurt people that made him feel like he was a liar. His life was measured in beatdowns and defending his manhood. He looked in the mirror and saw a coward. Noah Puckerman was his father's son.

Standing in the bright sunshine of 8 am felt like flying. Kurt's fingers laced though his. His hair was unusually flat and his eyes were shining. His pale forearms were peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of the flannel shirt that Puck had worn the day before. His lips were warmer than the sun that beat down on his neck

Friday night they spent finding themselves in the dark reds and pale pinks. Hours spent deciding who they were to each other. Monday morning they spent in the sky blues and locker green. Hours spent telling everyone who they decided that was.

They were their father's sons and the boys who were i_way/i_ too loud for their own good

VI- Edge

_Claimed_

The first time Puck slides his sharp canines in to his throat all he knew was blinding pain. The lightheaded blackness takes him quickly and the only thing he thinks is that he doesn't remember Puck's skin being so cold. When he wakes up three hours later he's in his car and the dull throb at the base of his neck is the only proof that it wasn't a dream.

The second time he doesn't see it coming. He's grabbed form behind and pulled into the dark corner of the alley. This time his sense spark. The smell of the piss and old garbage fills his nostrils. Puck's wearing wool and it leaves light scratches on his sensitive skin. The thin tips of teeth in this neck aren't as deep as they could be. He's not really sure how he knows this but he thinks that's Puck being gentle. This time he feels Puck actually leave his body and suddenly he feels like something's missing. That night he jerks off with his hand covering the mark and visions of Puck dancing through his head.

The third time is after he invites Puck inside. Puck backs him up against a wall and runs a shiny tongue over one of his own sharp teeth. Kurt hears the grunt and sees the blood that spills out of the wound Puck just created. This time the slide is slow, like Puck is waiting for Kurt to push him away. Kurt just curls his fingers around Puck's bicep and groan. This the first time Kurt can feel Puck drawing the blood out of him. The inside of Puck's lips grazes his skin will every pull and pleasure rockets down Kurt's spine. He can feel their blood mixing for a brief second before Puck bites harder. Going deeper that he ever has before. He falls over the edge of the pleasure he's been teetering on. As he spirals towards the blackness, he knows that Puck just claimed him. When he wakes up on curled on Puck's still chest and with Puck's possessive arm wrapped around his shoulder, he thinks he kinda likes that idea.

VII- Flood

_Mixtapes and Flowers_

It starts slow. Like the thin trickle of water that always signals that the levies are about to break. First Puck actually remember that he likes to drink his soda flat and asks the waitress for extra ice during a glee club outing. Then Kurt finds a single sweat pea taped to his locker and remembers that he once said they were his favorite flower. Once way before they were ever more than friends but less than what Kurt wanted. Then Kurt walks into the next rehearsal twirling the flower between his fingers and sees a matching one threaded between the strings of Puck guitar.

Later when they kiss in the darkened janitors closet, Kurt can smell the flower's fragrance on their skin and he can almost feel the way their petals whisper iI love you/i. He finds love in the mixtapes and the flowers. In the looks and the things that only Puck knows. For all those things he's willing to kiss in the darkness. Because this time, when they leave to step into the hallway, Puck holds his hand in sunlight.


End file.
